


say you don't mind

by westminster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cats, First Kiss, First Meetings, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, greg steals mycroft's cat, trigger warnings for sherlock's overdose, very bad humor, very feline-centric, we love some quality male bonding over a fat ginger cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-14 20:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16048163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminster/pseuds/westminster
Summary: "You took something of mine. Something very dear to me. I have a very particular set of skills: skills that make me a horrible enemy for someone like you to have.""An-der-sooon, is that you? I told you, the Taken references are never funny. That's a horrible Liam Neeson impression and you know it!""You must have drunk at least two point five units of alcohol to be unable to recognize that this is not 'Anderson's' voice. I'll speak slower. I'm talking about my cat, Raphael. Who is currently asleep in front of me with your number on the collar.""Raphael?? Like the ninja turtle? Cool.”Mycroft let out a groan, sinking lower into his chair."Raphael, like the revolutionary 16th century painter."





	1. sad memories i can't recall

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for clicking on this fic! As it says in the summary, I'm planning on posting three chapters in total. I have pretty sturdy plan for each chapter, and none are going to be exceptionally long. I hope you stick around for the other two! I've had this idea for a fic for a while now, and I'm so happy that I finally got to put it into words. Huge thank you to my good friend, Laura, who beta read this work  
> -  
> title + chapter titles all come from hailey tuck's songs.

Mycroft had lots of secrets. Secrets about everything, from childhood memories to intimate details about most of the Russian embassy. However, he likes to think that his most well-kept secret is that of Raphael. Raphael, the long-haired independent moggy that he'd found standing on his doorstep, like somehow it was _Mycroft_ that was out of place. That was nearly six years ago now, and through all the messy and volatile litter training, they had somehow created an inseparable bond. It was still hard for Mycroft to face the fact that he actually had something he cared about, someone _to_ care about. Of course, he'd never hear the end of it if Sherlock knew he'd become so ridiculously attached to something, so Raphael was kept safely hidden from Sherlock's unrelenting eyes. Luckily, Raphael was independent and strong-willed, sometimes disappearing for days at a time but always returning home.

_Except when he didn’t._

That was a time that Mycroft doesn’t like to dwell over. It was when he’d only just accepted that Raphael was more than a stray who’d hang around his apartment for a bit - he was _Mycroft’s_ stray. It pleased him to see that Raphael was finally showing signs that he was owned - plumpness around his stomach from Mycroft's habitual overfeeding and the disappearance of the numerous cuts and scrapes Raphael had come with. 

He could remember staring anxiously at his watch - _12 days, 9 hours and 33 minutes since he last saw Raphael._   He could remember frantically calling every cat shelter in the area. He could remember the rain coming down so harshly that it masked silent tears as he ran through the streets, looking for a glimpse of his cat. But most pertinently, he remembered looking out onto the dismal streets and central London and thinking, _He's not coming back._

Raphael, an apparent master of timing, chose that exact moment to appear once again outside Mycroft's house. He was softly mewling at the door, looking at Mycroft like this was perfectly normal, like he definitely hadn't disappeared for nearly three weeks. Mycroft's instant reaction was to squeeze him tightly, burying his face in the cat's neck. He brought Raphael away from his face, feeling his eyes start to sting in the process. However he couldn't help but laugh, Raphael had adopted that nonchalant cat-face: staring at Mycroft with what seemed like utter discontent. Behind the laughter though, was a hint of fear. Mycroft had never let his guard down for anything or anyone in the past thirty years, it was almost painful that something as menial as a feline could break him like that.

In the months that followed, this became a common occurrence, with Raphael leaving for long periods of time, but he'd always return after a few weeks. Raphael was his. 

***** ******

He'd taken the liberty to have a cat flap installed on his backdoor, equipped with a little bell that rung to alert Mycroft to Raphael's return. They lived amicably: Mycroft sipped his chamomile tea as the little bell chimed once more. He got up to fetch a tin of cat food from the cupboard, his slippers padding against the wood floor as he searched out Raphael. 

When he saw his beloved feline, Mycroft nearly dropped the food in shock. Raphael was wearing a cheap, luminous yellow collar and upon close inspection, there was a number attached. He wasn't sure what disgusted him more: the fact that someone had the audacity to take Raphael or that this criminal thought that luminous yellow was an acceptable colour choice. _This man must be evil_ , he thought.

He immediately reached for his phone which lay in the inner pocket of his blazer, however his hand froze before he could retrieve it. No, he'd take his time. Prepare. Research. That's what he was good at. Mycroft would be ready. _You're experiencing jealously_ , a tiny voice whispered in his head before he could stop it. It sounded oddly like Sherlock. _You, Mycroft Holmes, the man who has saved the world on countless occasions, are jealous that a stray cat might love this stranger more than you._ His nose crinkled with bitterness and added 'shut that voice up' onto his growing to-do list. 

A few days had passed, and Mycroft found himself with an unusual spare hour. Sat at his lavish desk, he debated making up some sort of security threat just for something to do. He was thumbing the buttons of his phone in contemplation, and found that he'd subconsciously rested on the stranger's number. He'd saved it in his phone the last time he saw Raphael. Mycroft didn't believe in a higher power, but he decided to interpret this as a signal to phone the cat thief anyway. He was a lot less prepared than he'd like to have been, normally he'd have crafted a whole speech. However, there was no time like the present. 

He felt a jolt of anxiety as he prepared to ring the stranger, something that was incredibly unusual for him. He listened the low, dull rings, anticipating for the call to go to voicemail. Nevertheless, he persevered until the phone suddenly connected with a click. 

"Urrrr- um hello? _HELLO_?" came the voice. Mycroft detected he'd drunk quite a few pints of alcohol, his speech was slightly slurred and he unnaturally elongated his words. Mycroft grimaced.

"You took something of mine. Something very dear to me. I have a very particular set of skills: skills that make me a horrible enemy for someone like you to have."

"An-der-sooon, is that you? I told you, the Taken references are never funny. That's a horrible Liam Neeson impression and you know it!"

"You must have drunk at least two point five units of alcohol to be unable to recognize that this is not 'Anderson's' voice. I'll speak slower. I'm talking about my cat, Raphael. Who is currently asleep in front of me with your number on the collar." 

"Raphael?? Like the ninja turtle? Cool.”

_Oh my god._ Mycroft let out a groan, sinking lower into his chair.

"Raphael, like the revolutionary 16th century painter."

"but his name is _Garfield!"_ the man quickly protested.

"Well, I'm guessing you didn’t name him after the 20th president of the United States of America..."

"Unless the 20th president of the United States of America was a fat ginger cartoon cat, then no."

"Very original, Gregory, very original."

"How do you know my name?" the man said quietly, not attempting to hide his shock.

"It's on the collar."

There was a long silence followed by a slightly embarassed 'oh.'

"Gosh, Gregory, aren't you supposed to be a DI?"

"Now _that_ definitely isn't on the collar," the stranger declared. It surprised Mycroft that it wasn't said with malice or confusion, but only as a straight forward statement.

"Ah, you caught me there. You happened to have stole Raphael, the most prized possession of a senior government figure. So, it was naturally for me to run your number through the database when I found out."

"Oh god! I'm not going to die under mysterious circumstances am I?", Greg said, adopting a sarcastic lilt, "I didn't mean to piss off James sodding Bond."

"Leave Raphael alone, Gregory. Or else I may be responsible if a little something makes it's way into your morning coffee." 

He cuts the call off before the man can reply.

*******

There is silence, for a few days, until he gets a phone call from the man. Gregory. 

"umm, James Bond? Garfi- Raphael refuses to leave my apartment. I've tried shooing him but he won't move. Any help, since you seem to be the expert in feline related matters?"

"I'll collect him. And it's Mycroft. I'm not a spy," he grinned to himself and adds "anymore" to the end. 

"Wow ok I'm going to need a little more information there, but something tells me you actually will murder me if I ask. I'm guessing you don't need my address?"

"No."

"Wow." comes the monotone response.

*******

It's a shabby little place. There's a plant hung outside the door, dead. It makes Mycroft utterly depressed. Has this man completely lost the will to live?

Greg opens the door, and Mycroft is pleasantly surprised. He didn't have time to do a thorough check up on his cat thief so his appearance is a complete shock to Mycroft. He's exactly his type, a silver fox with prominent dimples and a set of the darkest chocolate eyes he's ever seen. Part of Mycroft expected an overweight, middle-aged man in sweatpants, similar to most of the policemen he's had to deal with over the years. Instead there's Gregory, with a blue floral tie and navy pants that are well-tailored enough to highlight his slim frame. It's been a long time, Mycroft thinks glumly. He's only just met the man - no, the cat thief, he hastily reminds himself - and no fewer than 294 different fantasies have played through his head at lightning speed. 

He motions towards the counter tops, where Raphael is currently sniffing remnants of days old take out from a cardboard box. Mycroft is faintly disgusted. He's obviously judged Greg too early. His eyes scan the room, pitying Raphael for staying here. He stops to inspect the bowl, and on it is a name violently crossed out and 'Garfield' squeezed above it. 

The writing was hard to make out, but when Mycroft finally figured it out he couldn't help but whisper the name in surprise.

"Sherlock?"

Greg notices Mycroft's little outburst, and pushes out a strained laugh. He scratches his the back of his neck nonchalantly, "yeah, my friend Sally got me the bowl when Garfi-" He quickly noted Mycroft curl his upper lip in discontent. "Sorry. Um- when Raphael started coming regularly. No offence, but he was awful at first. Lashed out, constantly whining, scratching the sofa... I only persevered with him 'cause I thought he'd be starving to death on the streets without me. I told Sally everything, and she started to refer to him as Sherlock, my other mate who can be a bit of a twat at times."

Mycroft mused over Greg's use of the word _mate_. Interesting. He'd have to bring that up with his brother later. 

He started to change the subject, not wanting to dwell over Sherlock for too long. He didn't want to completely ruin their first meeting. _First meeting,_ that voice murmured, _implying you'll see him again. Quite bold, don't you think. Somebody's getting sentimental..._

Greg seemed to have picked up on some sort of disdain in Mycroft's face, kicking rubbish into a make-shift heap on the floor. 

"Sorry about the mess, been dealing with a particularly nasty murder recently. Don't think the yard can deal with another unsolved case on this level so everyone's been pulling out all the stops. Means I don't get much time to cook. Or clean. Or live like a normal human being,"

Mycroft forced a smile and sat on the sofa that Greg indicated to. He mumbled a faint comment of understanding, out of formality more than anything. In fact, he had no idea how anybody could feasibly live like this. Raphael currently had his head in the sink, depressing Mycroft further. 

"D'you want anything to drink? I've got a nice bottle of Dubonnet somewhere, someone told me it's the Queen's favourite drink. D'know about that 'cause it was only a tenner from Tesco's but if you're up for a glass...?"

His immediate reaction was to say no. To pick Raphael up and walk straight out of the apartment. If Sherlock kept behaving, he'd never have to see this man again. Despite the sane part of his brain screaming this argument to him, he couldn't help but see the appeal of staying there. It wasn't often he was offered alcohol by a decently attractive man with no ulterior motive. He detected a level on sincerity in Greg's voice, like he actually wanted Mycroft's company, and in the end, Mycroft succumbed and accepted Greg's invitation.

Two and a half glasses of the aperitif later, and Mycroft had loosened up quite a bit. They found themselves inching closer to each other, knees touching. There was an air of familiarity in their conversations: they spoke like two old friends, finding a plethora of things that connected these two very different men. Greg had placed a hand on Mycroft's knee at some point during the evening, and Mycroft found it to be quite a nice presence. Soon enough, Mycroft was recounting tales about his old spy days that he'd never told anyone before. Greg clung on to every word Mycroft spoke, eyes wide, listening intently. When he finished speaking, Greg grinned, "You really weren't joking on the phone. God, I'm really sharing a cat with James Bond." 

Mycroft was just about to interject - to tell him that Raphael was not an object to share. But then, as if on command, Raphael appeared again, trotting into view, jumping and settling on Greg's lap. _Traitor,_ the voice said. And for once, Mycroft didn't silence it. Instead, he was overcome by a such a strong surge of jealousy that he stood up, halting the conversation.

"Well, I must be going. I do believe I've overstayed my welcome. Thank you for the wine, I'll be taking my cat home now." His words were icy, and he put a particular stress on the word _my._

Greg seemed taken aback by the sudden change in his guest, and tried to redeem the situation by telling Mycroft what a pleasant guest he'd been. He'd wanted to spend more time with him, get to know the illusive man more... but chose to refrain from mentioning it. Without thinking, Mycroft reached down to pick Raphael up from Greg's lap, his fingers brushing his crotch in the process. He internally scolded himself for his indecency as he caught Greg's eye, the other man's cheeks reddening slightly. Mycroft took pity on him, loosening his stare slightly, giving the man a small, pleasant smile before mumbling a quick goodbye. 

Greg watched at the window as Mycroft strode to a slightly sinister looking black vehicle, and couldn't help but feel warmth towards him. Mycroft. He wouldn't be forgetting that name anytime soon.


	2. broken hearted jubilee

Mycroft hated the smell of hospitals. Too much death, too much sadness. Too much noise. It interfered with his thinking. The dimly lit corridors and faint sounds of beeping and crying represented humanity at it’s weakest. Everywhere in his vicinity hearts were being broken, grief was trying to be overcome and people sat and waited for an answer they didn't want to hear. Hospitals made you vulnerable, fragile - everything that Mycroft loathed. 

 

Sherlock had overdosed for the second time this month, and Mycroft was at his bedside again: a soft and underlying presence in the bare room. Naturally, Mycroft knew Sherlock wouldn't appreciate him being there, but he found himself unable to complete any proper work with Sherlock on his mind. He distanced himself from his younger brother in the hospital room, head in his heads in the corner, frozen as he kept replaying the doctor's last message to him. 

 

"This was a fairly big relapse. We're not sure if he'll be okay this time. He'll live, but there is a slight chance that the overdose damaged his frontal lobe. We'll know more once the tests are complete."

 

We're not sure if he'll be okay.

 

He felt so conflicted in that moment: Was he to blame? He'd been so certain Sherlock was showing signs of recovery. Should he phone Mummy? No, better not to worry her. Wait until the results are back, he thought. And the big one, how could he stop this from happening again? The harder he tried to find answers, the more he ached, trapped in his own mind. He needed air - that was something he could decide on. Just a moment away from it all. That was what he needed.

 

"Mycroft?"

 

The voice brought him back to reality, and he found himself staring at Greg in the dimly lit corridor. From his wide eyes and short breaths, he quickly deduced that the doctor had told him the exact same thing. He could see that Greg's eyes had begun to water, and Mycroft was taken aback, the tears a testament to how much he cared about Sherlock. Really cared. He looked at Greg and saw a man who deserved clarity, and not Mycroft's constant ambiguity. He walked up, and held out his hand to the other man.

 

"I think a more formal introduction may be required. Mycroft. Mycroft _Holmes._ Sherlock's brother. I genuinely only realised your involvement in his life during our first meeting. I must make my sincerest apologies for not informing you of our connection earlier. I believed it was easier that way - that was wrong. I keep a very close eye on my brother, and It's clear that you care about him an awful lot. And for that you will forever have my thanks."

 

Greg ignored the hand, and instead wrapped his arms around Mycroft, fingers clutching at the fabric of Mycroft's waistcoat. The last three men who have touched him in that exact spot have all met rather swift endings, so Mycroft is shocked to realise he rather likes having Greg's warm body against him. Likes having something to hold on to, to anchor himself to in these difficult moments. He can feel Greg softly sobbing into his neck, and his subconscious decides it's a good idea to run his fingers through Greg's hair. They remain like that, close, adjoining, for a while until Greg finally breaks away, staring deep into Mycroft's eyes. He's waiting for a sign, a reassurance that everything's okay, even though it may not be. And Mycroft, caught up in the heat of the moment, gives it to him in the form a small, chaste kiss. It's over before Greg can truly process what's happening, and before he fully recovers from the shock Mycroft has already distanced himself from Greg. Greg gives him a heartfelt smile, taking his hand and squeezing it slightly. They've both realised it: they need each other right now.


	3. loneliness is just a waste of time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for persevering with me to the end! and also thank you for the amazing feedback I've been getting, it means a lot. If you're reading this on the day it's posted or even a few years down the line, every single little bit of feedback is greatly appreciated.

The first person he calls when Sherlock wakes up should be Mummy. He knows that. Instead it's Greg, his voice quiet and intimate, an immediate comfort. Mycroft relays the information, the news that Sherlock is stable, awake and most importantly _okay._ Greg voice is filled with relief, Mycroft can practically hear the huge grin on his face, and it makes Mycroft do something that, in his world, is quite daring. 

"Would you like to celebrate? I never repaid you for that bottle of wine, and I have a rather grand selection in my apartment at the moment." 

Greg is so shocked by the notion that he agrees quickly, before he has the chance to talk himself out of it. After all, going to Mycroft's right now would be irresponsible - there's a pile of paperwork in front of him, stacked up like a sadistic Leaning Tower of Pisa. He knows he'll probably be maimed if he doesn't finish this report by the end of today. That doesn't stop him from walking straight out of his office, though, picking up a tie on the way. He assumed Mycroft would feel more comfortable if he was dressed formally. That fact made him smile a little, marvelling at how he'd ended up a little bit in love with such an eccentric man. He knew that love was a strong word, but ever since the kiss, which wasn't even the best kiss he'd had that week if he was honest, he couldn't stop thinking about the other man. He rushed to the office bathrooms to tie his tie in the mirror, only to find that his shirt had an unmistakable coffee stain on it. He'd have to make a trip home to change: he hoped Mycroft wouldn't be offended at his lateness. 

The journey home took much longer than expected, Greg wasn't used to the London streets at this time, working late shifts at Scotland Yard almost every day. By the time he got home, he was worried Mycroft would've lost faith in him. He sprinted through the door, and was in the middle of buttoning up a new shirt when he heard a crash from the kitchen. What worried him the most wasn't the fact that it could very well be an armed burglar, or even worse, Sherlock, but rather the fact that any of these things would make him even later. He was in way over his head. He poked his head around the door in anticipation, hands shaking slightly. He clutched his phone, ready to alert the Yard at a moment's notice.

"Oh my _god_ ," he sighed, sliding against the door frame in relief. Raphael was staring at him, next a broken vase, camellia flowers scattered all over the floor. He looked up at Greg with a face of pure innocence, earning a faint laugh. 

"You're a pain, you know that?" He told the cat affectionately, picking up the flowers and stroking Raphael in the process. He held the camellias up to the light, they were a lovely rich pink, he'd bought them for a blind date that never showed up. He'd brought them home and stuck them in water, thinking they deserved a better ending. _A better ending._ Greg clicked.

"Raphael, you are a genius and I love you," He held the cat up to his face, making these statements in a deadly serious tone, "I bow down to your superior wisdom and I am incredibility sorry I ever doubted you."  

Greg knew from experience that Raphael was really just being a pain - he'd broken three photo frames the first time he'd entered Greg's apartment. Despite this, part of him loved to believe that he'd strategically knocked the vase so Greg could woo Mycroft with the flowers. He tied them up with left over ribbon, and made to leave. However, just as he put his hand on the door handle, Raphael gave a soft mewl. 

"What's up buddy? Want to see Mycroft too, hmmm? I’m sure he’d appreciate that - go on, get in the cat basket.”

 

***

 

And that’s how Greg finds himself here, freezing to death outside of Mycroft’s apartment with flowers on the verge of death and an overweight ginger cat. He wasn't sure if he’d got the hang of this whole ‘romance’ thing. 

Mycroft opened the door before Greg even had a chance to knock, making it obvious he was keenly anticipating his guest’s arrival. His eyes twinkled when he saw Raphael, but Mycroft didn’t smile. Greg quickly realised he’d have to try a lot harder to impress Mycroft, even though he could tell he appreciated Raphael’s appearance. 

Mycroft gestured inside while Greg let Raphael out of the carrier. The cat wandered out the pair’s sight as Greg was led into a rather large but minimalistic living room with an adjoining kitchen. It was like a classier version of an IKEA showroom, with no personal mementos at all. The only sign there was someone living in here was the half empty wine bottle on the cabinet. Mycroft caught him staring at it and remarked, “I thought you weren’t coming so I may have had a _little_  bit of the wine. Let me pour you a glass?”  

Greg nodded, but caught Mycroft’s arm before he could walk away, holding up the flowers. Now, _that_ gesture got a hint of a smile. Greg made a mental note to bring a bouquet next time. 

“Camellias. Interesting choice. May I ask why?” 

As Greg made an attempt to lie convincingly, Mycroft handed him a glass, which he subsequently swallowed. 

“Err.. they were pretty?” He said, praying he sounded believable. That was genuinely why he did buy them, Mycroft didn’t need to know who exactly he'd bought them for though. 

“Ah. Of course.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Desire.” 

Greg’s pupils dilated at the word, confused and intrigued. 

“Camellias - synonymous for desire. They were known as courting flowers. You’d give to prospective partners. Well, of course, you don’t mean it in that way but etiquette classes taught me a lot about floral choices. Mummy always did say I read too much into things.” 

Greg didn’t know why he chose to say what he said: maybe he was feeling a little brave. He couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol - it hadn’t had time to work it’s way into his system yet. But, for some reason, he blurts out, “What if I did mean it like that?” 

Mycroft paused momentarily, and Greg gulped. Greg waited for the rejection, and was relieved when all Mycroft did was take his wine glass out of his hand and place it back on the counter. He moved closer to Greg, so close that Greg could smell his aftershave - something rich and oaky, probably worth more than Greg’s little flat. 

“Well, my dearest inspector. If you are trying to woo me with floral messages, then I have to admit that it may just be working. If you _did_ mean it like that, then I would be tempted to further our relationship.” 

“Further our relationship?” Greg questioned, grinning. He was blushing quite a bit by now, and was impressed at how composed Mycroft was. 

Mycroft hooked his fingers around Greg’s tie, toying with the fabric. He made a noise of agreement to answer the question, not daring to look into Greg’s eyes.

Greg was finding this process all rather long, and decided to lean in and kiss Mycroft. He hadn’t expected Mycroft to react so quickly, or so needily. But he kissed Greg with force and no finesse, like a starved man. Greg was left wondering how long Mycroft had wanted this and how many times had he thought about Greg. Mycroft kissed him the way he’d least expected it - there was no methodical planning, no calculations, there was nothing graceful about this kiss. It was deep and wanting, Greg’s hands moving to Mycroft’s lower back and Mycroft’s hands in Greg’s hair. Greg was propped against the cabinet and Mycroft has a leg in between his thighs. 

Mycroft laughed into the kiss, pulling away ever so slightly.

“Gregory, _stop it.”_

“Stop what?” Greg murmured, not really paying attention. He was concentrating on more meaningful tasks, like cataloguing the way Mycroft’s hand was caressing his cheek. 

“Tickling me.” 

Greg looked slightly alarmed at that, pulling away completely. 

“I’m not...” 

Greg stopped, because he’d seem to have found the answer he was looking for. Raphael was rubbing his tail against Mycroft’s leg affectionately. They both shared a laugh, and Mycroft picked him up whilst Greg stroked the fur under his chin. 

“I think we should change his name.” 

“Gregory, no matter how affectionate I am towards you, I swear to God I’ll throw you out of the window if you suggest Garfield again.” 

“Let’s call him Cilla.” 

“I do not understand that reference.” 

“Cilla Black?” Greg exclaimed, mouth slightly agape, growing more so at Mycroft’s confused look.

“God, call yourself a-know-it-all and you’ve never even seen the programme _Blind Date_. She’s the most iconic matchmaker ever! A national treasure! Raphael was our Cilla Black, he brought us together.”

“Gregory, I never had time for such frivolities.”

“Blind Date is _not_ a frivolity! It’s a huge part of television history!”

“I’m not sure if it has come to your attention but Raphael is a male. I do, however, admire your intentions. Might I suggest Eros as a particularly fitting name? He’s the Greek God of Love - you probably know him as Cupid.”

“Cupid!” Greg smiled, and the cat looked directly at him, rewarding him with a slight purr. “That can be his nickname.” 

Mycroft chuckled, leaning into Greg’s touch. “We could give him to Sherlock... I hear he’s in the market for a new roommate.” 

“I hate to admit it, but even the God of Love couldn't do anything for him.” 

 At that precise moment, a certain Dr. John Watson entered 221B Baker Street for the first time. Oh, how wrong they were. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments & criticism are all greatly appreciated!  
> find me on tumblr, send me prompts: @mandelsons


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